American History Tellers - Evolution on Trial | A Clash of Giants | 1

Episode Date: July 9, 2025

In 1925, the famous politician and presidential contender William Jennings Bryan returned to the limelight to lead a new crusade against the teaching of evolution. With Bryan’s support, Tennessee became the first state to ban the teaching of evolution in public schools.The American Civil Liberties Union resolved to challenge the anti-evolution law in court, and the small town of Dayton, Tennessee volunteered one of their own: a shy 24-year old high school science teacher named John Scopes. What became known as the “Scopes Monkey Trial” would bring together two of America’s most famous orators in a case that would captivate the nation, and pit modern science against religious conviction.Be the first to know about Wondery’s newest podcasts, curated recommendations, and more! Sign up now at https://wondery.fm/wonderynewsletterListen to American History Tellers on the Wondery App or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge the newest season. Unlock exclusive early access by joining Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial today by visiting wondery.com/links/american-history-tellers/ now.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Picture this, you're transported back in time, witnessing history unfold right before your eyes, without any modern-day interruptions. That's the magic of Wondery+. Immerse yourself in the stories that shaped our nation with ad-free episodes, early access to new seasons, and exclusive bonus content. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts and experience American history like never before. Imagine it's May 5th, 1925 in Dayton, Tennessee. You're sitting at a small table beside the soda fountain and Robinson's Drugstore.

Two friends sit across from you, the school board president Fred Robinson, who is also the owner of the drug store, and school superintendent Walter White. The three of you sit in silence, each watching the drug store door for the fourth person invited to this meeting. Scopes, there you are at last. You and your friends exchange looks of anticipation anticipation as high school science teacher John Scopes approaches you in tennis whites. His blonde hair and boyish face glistening with sweat. I'm glad you could make it. Here, pull up a chair. Scopes walks toward your table peering at you warily through horn-rimmed glasses.

As he sits down Robinson hands him a glass of Coca-Cola. He takes a gulp and wipes the sweat from his brow, and then eases into his chair with a relaxed confidence. All right, what's all this about? I'm in the middle of a match. The shop boy said he couldn't wait, though. Yes, well, we've been talking. Hand me the textbook, Fred. Robinson passes you a copy of the high school biology textbook he sells in the store. You hold it up for Scopes to see.

Now, have you been teaching your children from this book? Scopes lights a cigarette and frowns. Yes? Then that means you've taught them evolution. Well sure, I assigned them the chapter. You know that means you broke the law. What do you mean I broke the law? Now don't worry, it's a good thing. Scopes gives you a confused look. Well let me explain. The Tennessee legislature just passed a law banning schools from teaching evolution.

Some lawyers in New York want to stage a trial to get it overturned. They just need a teacher to be the defendant and that's where you come in. I'm sorry I don't follow. They need someone who's taught evolution and is willing to get arrested. The case will go to trial and we'll see if we can get this cockamamie law struck down. These Christian fundamentalists have gone too far, you know, trying to banish science from our classrooms. I'm sorry, you want me to get arrested? Are you crazy? What if I'm convicted? Oh, you won't go to jail if that's what you're worried about. The maximum penalty is a $500 fine. And if it comes to that, we'll all pitch in. It's going to be

worth it. But why me? Well, you're a popular fellow. You're the football coach, for heaven's sake. Everybody likes you. No one will suspect an ounce of malice on your part. Well, if you say so. Oh, I do say so. Trust me, this is going to be the best thing that's happened to Dayton in a long time. What do you mean by that? Well, the ironworks shutting down has been terrible for Dayton. This will get us back on track. Think about all the publicity we'll get. This is our chance to turn things around. And anyway, don't you want to take a stand for academic freedom?

Scopes takes another drag from his cigarette and gazes out the window, his brow furrowed. Well, of course I do. It's my job to teach these kids the truth. And evolution is the truth, plain and simple. We shouldn't let laws dictate what goes on in the classroom. Well, here's your chance to push back against those Bible thumpers who want to take us backwards. What do you say? Scopes stamps out his signet and pushes his chair back. Well, alright, I'll do it, but you have to promise me I won't be paying that fine. I'm on a teacher's salary, after all. Absolutely, you won't pay a cent and you can get back to your match now.

As Scopes rushes out the door, you raise your soda to Robinson and White in a toast to Dayton. Take a swig of Coke and then grin. Your mind is already racing with thoughts of reporters, cameramen and tourists flooding Market Street. You know this is your shot to finally bring your town back to life. From Blackjack Pro, where strategy meets top-tier gameplay, drop in on the exciting Sugar Rush and Crazy Time slot games, or play the dazzling MGM Grand Emerald Nights, a slot experience that captures the magic of MGM. With so many games, it's time to make your move. Download the app and visit BedMGM Ontario today to experience the next level of gaming. Visit BedMGM.com for terms and conditions. 19 plus to wager. Ontario

only. Please, gamble responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or someone close to you, please contact Connex Ontario at 1-866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with iGaming Ontario. Keep people and pets safer. Always keep your dog on a leash in public. Learn more at toronto.ca slash leash your dog. A message from the City of Toronto. From Wandery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers, our history,

your story. On our show, we take you to the events, the times and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday people as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now. In 1925, the Tennessee legislature banned the teaching of evolution in public schools. By then, Charles Darwin's theory of evolution was widely accepted in scientific circles, but conservative lawmakers were responding

to a campaign led by Christian fundamentalists who viewed evolution as a direct threat to the Bible's authority and traditional moral values. The American Civil Liberties Union, a small civil rights organization that had been founded only five years earlier, saw this Tennessee law as an attack on academic freedom. So, in the spring of 1925, they placed an ad seeking volunteers to challenge the anti-evolution law in court. When residents in the small town of Dayton, Tennessee read about the ACLU's request, they saw an opportunity to stage a publicity stunt to jumpstart their local economy. So they volunteered a well-liked

24-year-old teacher named John Scopes. What followed was one of the most sensational trials in American history, pitting two of America's greatest orators against one another. The famous liberal trial attorney Clarence Darrow led the defense, while the prosecution boasted the star power of William Jennings Bryan, a Christian fundamentalist himself, a progressive hero, and three-time presidential nominee. Over the course of eight days that July, crowds packed a sweltering courtroom to witness this clash of titans. A flood of reporters descended on Dayton alongside fire and brimstone preachers, hot dog vendors, and trained chimpanzees, transforming this sleepy town into a circus-like spectacle. It would be one of the largest mass media events the country had ever seen.

But at its core, the Scopes trial was about a broader struggle over the direction of American society. The Dayton Courthouse became a battleground over the meaning of freedom, the role of science and religion in the classroom, and the conflict between tradition and modernity. It laid bare the fundamental tensions of a rapidly changing society and forced all of America to take sides. This is episode one in our three-part series, Evolution on Trial, a Clash of Giants. on trial a clash of giants. In early July 1925, 65-year-old William Jennings Bryan boarded a train bound for the small Tennessee hamlet of Dayton where he had volunteered to lead the prosecution in an unusual case,

one he saw as an opportunity to defend traditional religious values. As he traveled, Jennings strategized how he would convince a jury that the teaching of evolution in public schools was nothing less than a threat to the moral fabric of America. But by the time Jennings boarded his train to Tennessee, he was in the twilight of a long career in progressive politics, having been an icon in the Democratic Party and someone known for his ability to speak to the struggles and aspirations of ordinary Americans. His more recent crusade against evolution led some to wonder if he had abandoned his progressive ideals, but Bryan's road to the trial in Dayton began years earlier during his childhood in Salem,

Illinois. William Jennings Bryan was born in 1860 to a devout Protestant family. His father had served as a Democrat in the Illinois State Senate, and when Brian was fourteen, he was baptized as a Presbyterian after attending a revival led by a traveling preacher. He would later reflect that, My father taught me to believe in democracy, as well as Christianity. And for Brian, religion and politics were inseparable. His deep Christian faith and his firm belief in the will of the majority formed the basis for a lifelong commitment to political reform. After earning a law degree, Brian moved to Nebraska and started a law practice, then jumped into a career in politics.

In 1890 he was elected to Congress as a Democrat, advocating for populist policies such as the federal income tax and campaign finance reform. His eloquence and youthful passion earned him the nickname the Boy Orator. And in 1896, Brian was just 36 years old when he won the Democratic nomination for president. At the party convention he delivered the most powerful speech of his career, an attack on gold-backed currency which he believed benefited the wealthy at the expense of ordinary people. For the climax of this speech, he combined Christian rhetoric with a stirring plea for majority rule, declaring, You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold. He then threw his arms back

in a Christ-like pose, and the convention exploded in rapturous applause. Then, after securing his party's nomination, Brian set out on an unprecedented national campaign traveling 18,000 miles and delivering more than 600 speeches. So that in a time before radio, more than five million Americans heard him speak. He was a politician ahead of his time, the first major presidential candidate to champion reforms such as banking regulation, the direct election of U.S. senators, a graduated income tax, and women's suffrage, earning him a new nickname, the Great Commoner, in honor of his populist policies and rhetoric.

But these positions alienated urban voters and conservative Democrats. Brian lost the 1896 election. But his defeat did not dampen his passion for reform. He went on to run for president again in 1900 and 1908, although he was unsuccessful both times. But after helping elect Woodrow Wilson as president in 1912, he was rewarded with an appointment as Secretary of State. However, Brian was a staunch pacifist, and he resigned his position in 1915 after becoming convinced that Wilson was leading the nation into World War I. But after leaving government, Brian continued speaking and writing on religion and politics.

He moved to Miami, where he became wealthy through the Florida land boom there. By 1920, though, he was 60 years old, and his health had declined. He was balding and paunchy, and his voice cracked when he spoke. For many, he now seemed like a relic of a previous era. By the 1920s, America was shedding the past and speeding into a modern age. Young people were embracing a faster, freer way of life embodied by automobiles, jazz music and bootleg whiskey. But as America grew more urban, modern, and forward-thinking, Brian feared the country was losing its

way. So he fashioned himself into a defender of traditional Protestant values. Brian was not alone in his fears about modern society. In the 1920s, American Protestants were beginning to splinter over how to adapt their faith to a changing world. Although Protestantism remained the dominant faith in the U.S., its influence had begun to wane under the pressures of immigration, urbanization, the embrace of science, and an increasingly secular culture. These tensions sparked deep divisions among Protestants, and various denominations split into modernist and fundamentalist camps. The modernists attempted to reconcile their Christianity and the Bible

with science and the realities of modern life. On the other side, the fundamentalists insisted on literal interpretations of the Bible to preserve traditional values and prevent moral decline. They turned to Brian as a leading voice. Fundamentalism was growing in part as a response to the widespread acceptance of evolution. During the first two decades of the twentieth century, scientists had amassed a large body of evidence supporting Charles Darwin's scientific theory that humans had evolved from ape-like ancestors through natural selection. And as evolution gained broad acceptance

within the scientific community, it also made its way into high school curriculums. By the 1920s, the expansion of public education in the United States meant that more and more young people were exposed to modern science and popular biology textbooks taught evolution as scientific fact. But Bryan and other fundamentalists feared those teachings were undermining religious faith and moral values. They condemned evolution, arguing that it contradicted the Bible's creation narrative and denied God's role in humanity's origins. But Brian's stance against evolution had itself evolved over time. As a younger man, he had been open to the possibility that evolution

was compatible with Christian faith. But as he grew older, he became convinced that evolution was responsible for the wrongs of the modern world. He watched the rich and powerful use the Darwinian theory of survival of the fittest to justify oppression and inequality, a concept known as social Darwinism. Then, upon the outbreak of World War I, he saw evidence of Germany using those same ideas to justify military aggression. Brian declared, evolution is the merciless law by which the strong crowd out and kill off the weak.

And Brian had long seen himself as a champion of the weak and defenseless against the forces of a harsh and different world. In the 1890s he had worked to defend ordinary Americans against the forces of corporate greed and three decades later he set his sights on defending the public against evolution. But Brian lacked a clear objective until late 1921. In December of that year, Baptist leaders in Kentucky gathered for an annual meeting, where they passed a resolution imploring lawmakers to ban the teaching of evolution in public schools.

Brian adopted the cause as his own and campaigned throughout the state. But despite his endorsement, the bill narrowly failed in the Kentucky state legislature. But the anti-evolution movement surged ahead nonetheless, and Bryan thrust himself into the fight, leading the charge as its fiercest advocate. Imagine it's March 1922 at the WJH radio station in Washington, D.C. You are a paleontologist and the president of the American Museum of Natural History. You've traveled down from New York to record a special program with William Jennings Bryan

on the topic of teaching evolution. The radio producer has just finished your introductions and he holds up his fingers giving you a silent countdown, then points to Bryan to give his opening statement. Good evening. I come here tonight not only as a Christian, but as an American citizen concerned about the spiritual and moral decay of our youth. Children are being taught that they have descended from apes, that they were mere accidents, beasts in an indifferent world rather than souls made in God's image. They are being fed an unproven theory that denies the divine origin of mankind.

The producer then points to you and you give Brian a nod. Mr. Brian, I am sure the youth are heartened to have such an esteemed public figure as yourself championing their welfare, but I assure you evolution is no mere theory. Brian lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. Well, more than 70 years have passed since Darwin and scientists still have not found proof of natural selection. Well there I am afraid you are mistaken, Mr. Brian. That evidence is widely available. You may be an expert in the area of political debate, but you may know little of the debate among scientists, so let me explain.

While we may disagree over the particulars of how evolution occurs, there is no debate about the truth of evolution itself. Brian smiles into his microphone, as if he's sharing a private joke. Oh, you speak with such certainty. You profess to know the entire lineage of man from a stray tooth dug up from a gravel pit? A mere tooth? Well, not just a tooth, Mr. Brian. Skulls, jawbones, footprints, the curvature of an ancient hip and spines.

I invite you to visit my museum and see the fossil for yourself. I don't need fossils to know the truth. All I need is the Bible. Well, so heed its advice. Speak to the earth and it shall teach thee. The book of Job, chapter 12, you know. There's no conflict between science and religion, between morals and empirical facts.

The study of evolution does not remove God from the universe. It reveals Him in my estimation. It deepens the wonder and marvel of creation. It is God's method of creating living things. At the end of the broadcast, Brian pulls off his headphones, his face a bit flushed. You offer him a polite nod, satisfied that you've held your ground and proven yourself a worthy adversary. But you know Brian is not one to shrink from a challenge, and you fear that

opposition to his crusade will only make him fight harder. In his campaign against evolution, William Jennings Bryan debated scientists, lobbied politicians and gave hundreds of speeches nationwide. He attacked evolution in articles, books and his syndicated columns that reached more than 15 million readers. Returning to themes that had long guided his career, he framed evolution as something forced upon the country by an elitist scientific oligarchy without any concern for democracy or majority rule. He argued that most Americans agreed with him and that public schools should

reflect taxpayers' beliefs. And before long, Brian had transformed the teaching of evolution into a major political issue. In 1923, six southern states considered anti-evolution bills, though only two minor measures passed. In Oklahoma, a new public textbook law restricted the promoting of evolution. And in Florida, legislators adopted a non-binding resolution calling the teaching of evolution improper and subversive. But Brian himself had drafted the language and was eager for more political wins. So soon Brian would take his crusade to Tennessee,

turning this state into the next big battleground in his war against evolution. But even as he rallied lawmakers and citizens alike, he failed to predict that his campaign would ignite one of the most explosive legal cases America had ever seen. Agent Nate Russo returns in Oracle 3, Murder at the Grandview, the latest installment of the gripping Audible original series. When a reunion at an abandoned island hotel turns deadly, Russo must untangle accident from murder.

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And I'm Matt Ford. And we're the hosts of Wanderer's podcast, British Scandal. Pray, good fellow, please join us in our latest most gripping series. What on earth are you doing? Well, speaking in Tudor English, you know, because we're doing Amberlyn. So I thought it would help people get in the mood and take them back to the court of King Henry VIII. Now, if I know British scandal listeners, and I think I know British scandal listeners,

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he delivered a stirring attack on evolution in which he declared, We cannot afford to turn over our children to be educated and have their hearts robbed of their faith. He also complained that Darwin did not even allow us to come from a good American monkey, but instead traced human origins to African apes. The crowd roared its approval and printed copies of this speech were distributed throughout the state with 500 pamphlets provided to members of the Tennessee State House. One of the recipients was Representative John Butler, a Baptist farmer and longtime admirer of Brian. And in January 1925, Butler introduced a bill in the State House to outlaw

the teaching of any theory that denies the story of the divine creation of man as taught in the Bible. Butler later admitted, I didn't know anything about evolution when I introduced the bill, just that boys and girls were coming home from school and telling their fathers and mothers that the Bible was all nonsense. But the details of evolution mattered little to Butler and his colleagues. The bill sailed through the Tennessee House, passing just six days later in a vote of 71 to 5. Then it moved to the state senate, where opposition was stronger. So as the senate wavered, anti-evolution crusaders sharpened their weapons and coordinated their attack. Imagine it's February 1925 at the Tennessee State Capitol in Nashville, where you serve as a Democratic state senator.

As you round a corner, you're greeted by the familiar scent of pipe tobacco and shoe polish. You take a seat on a worn oak bench, joining a line of men waiting to have their shoes shined. You recognize the man beside you as a younger colleague, Senator Daniels. You give his shoulder a friendly bump. Well, if it isn't just the man I've been looking for. Daniels nods politely, but his gaze narrows.

Oh, is that right? It sure is. Mind if I bend your ear a moment? It's this anti-evolution bill coming up for a vote, and I want your support. Oh, that. I don't know. Just hear me out. I've got no quarrel with scientists digging up fossils, theorizing all they want, but that doesn't mean that we should be teaching unproven theories to our children. Well, unproven or not, I'm not so sure it's our job as lawmakers to go around banning ideas just because a few preachers say we should.

This isn't about preachers. It's about rights of parents, the very people who sent you and me to the state capitol. It's our job to carry out their will. The people of Tennessee are decent, God-fearing people, and they don't want their children's classrooms contradicting their churches. Well, I don't know, that's what's happening. You've got kids, don't you? I do? Two boys, 12 and 16. 12 and 16. An impressionable age. Ask yourself, how would you feel if their science teacher told them, everything you learn in Sunday school is wrong? Genesis is just a myth. You are not made in the image of God. You're descended from apes.

What would you think then? Daniel shifts in his seat. Well, I'd have words, I suppose. Exactly, as would I, because science teachers are driving children from the faith they were raised in. This isn't about banning ideas. It's about setting a boundary.

Well, it may be, but if this bill does pass, the rest of the country is gonna think we're nothing but a bunch of backwoods hicks. Oh, I don't care what Yankees think, this isn't about them, this is about Tennessee. Our people, our values. What will your constituents think if you vote against the bill? What will your pastors think? Daniels rubs his jaw and then sighs. Well, you've made a point. This is about Tennesseans after all. And I wouldn't want to tell any parent that the school they trust their children to

is contradicting their faith. So I can count on your vote? Well, probably. Let's just say my view on the matter is evolving. You laugh and clap your hand on his shoulder. You'll circle back to him and try and shore up his support, but right now you feel like you've got a good chance at one more vote in your campaign to take evolution out of the classrooms.

And then you'll finally be able to hold the line against all the forces threatening the moral bedrock of this country. In the Tennessee Senate, critics of John Butler's anti-evolution bill argued that it violated individual rights and the separation of church and state, but they were outnumbered by his supporters who framed the ban as a measure to protect traditional values and biblical authority. And soon, the bill's supporters found another new powerful ally in Billy Sunday, America's most famous evangelical preacher.

While debate continued in the State Senate, Billy Sunday traveled to Memphis for an eighteen-day revival that drew massive crowds. On a raucous opening night, he warned that education today is chained to the Devil's throne. Pounding his fists on the lectern, he praised the Tennessee State House for defying a God-forsaken gang of evolutionary cutthroats. His revival went on holding a men's night, a women's night, a so-called negro night, and an unofficial Ku Klux Klan night. By the time he left Memphis, Sunday had spoken to 200,000 Tennesseans, roughly 10 percent of the population of the entire state. Days later, the anti-evolution bill

came up for a vote in the state senate. On March 13, 1925, the Senate responded to popular enthusiasm by passing the Butler Act in a vote of 24 to 6. A week later, Tennessee Governor Austin Peay signed the bill into law, and Tennessee became the first state in the Union to ban the teaching of evolution in public schools. Violations carried a maximum fine of $500. But despite signing the bill, when Governor Peay approved the Butler Act, he never expected it to be enforced. Instead, he saw the law as a symbolic measure, meant to discourage the teaching of evolution. His goal was to take a stand, not to punish teachers.

But when William Jennings Bryan learned that the Butler Act had been made law, he was thrilled, declaring, Other states north and south will now follow the example Act had been made law, he was thrilled, declaring, Other states north and south will now follow the example of Tennessee. But even as he rejoiced in the new momentum of his crusade, he worried about the law's inclusion of a penalty, fearing that it could give ammunition to critics and invite legal challenges. And Bryan's fears would come to pass when news of the Butler Act reached a small, struggling organization in New York City, the American Civil Liberties Union. The ACLU had been founded in the aftermath of World War I

to defend the civil liberties of anti-war protesters and conscientious objectors. It was dedicated to protecting freedom of speech no matter where it lay on the political spectrum. So when ACLU lawyers learned of the Butler Act, they were outraged at what they saw as a violation of academic freedom and a challenge to the separation of church and state. They quickly seized the opportunity to advance their cause and placed advertisements in Tennessee newspapers offering to support any Tennessee teacher willing to challenge the Butler Act in court. And on May 5, 1925, a man in Dayton, Tennessee named George Rapelier

read an article about the ACLU's plans in the local paper. Rapelier was a New York transplant who had moved to Dayton three years earlier to manage the local branch of a coal and iron company. Dayton was nestled in the foothills of East Tennessee, surrounded by strawberry farms and coal mines. And since its founding in the years after the Civil War, the once prosperousprosperous town had fallen on hard times. After the local blast furnace closed, the town's population dwindled

from roughly three thousand residents to less than eighteen hundred. But Dayton's slumping economy wasn't the only thing that troubled Rapelier. In the few short years since his arrival, he had become increasingly alarmed by the fundamentalism spreading throughout the state. Rapelier himself attended the local Methodist Church, and he believed that evolution was perfectly compatible with Christianity. So when he read about the ACLU's plans, he saw a chance to strike down a law he disagreed with, but even more than that, he saw the potential to mount a high-profile case that could bring national attention, as well as tourist dollars and much-needed investment to his struggling town.

So with newspaper in hand, Rapelier rushed off to Robinson's drugstore. Since the onset of Prohibition, the drugstore's soda fountain had become a popular watering hole for local leaders. And there Rapelier found Fred Robinson, the drugstore owner and school board president, and Walter White, the school superintendent. Rapelier pitched his idea, and while White liked the anti-evolution law, he liked the idea of bringing publicity to his town even more. Both he and Robinson quickly warmed to Rapelier's idea of staging the test case in Dayton. They just needed to find a teacher willing to challenge the law in court. But Robinson, the school board president, had a potential defendant in mind. John Scopes, a popular 24-year-old science teacher and athletic coach at Dayton High School. A messenger found him playing tennis at a nearby court and summoned him to the

drug store mid-match. And when Scopes arrived, Robinson poured him a soda while Rapelier began explaining his idea. Scopes protested that he taught physics, math, and football, not biology, but it turned out that he had taught evolution while filling in as a substitute for the regular biology instructor when he was sick. And Scopes confirmed that he had used the state-approved textbook, Hunter's Civic Biology, which discussed evolution as a scientific fact. But despite the passage of the Butler Act six weeks earlier, the state had yet to approve an alternative textbook. Hearing this, the men told Scopes that by

teaching evolution out of that textbook he had violated the law. They explained the ACLU's offer and asked Scopes if he would be willing to participate in the test case. They saw him as an ideal defendant. He was young, single, and well-liked in the community. His horn-rimmed glasses and boyish face gave him a clean cut and approachable appearance. And although he had inherited his father's agnostic views, he bore no hostility toward religion, and he had occasionally attended the local Methodist church as a way to make friends. This would prevent critics from

framing the case as an attack on religious faith. Hearing the proposal, Scopes decided that he had little to lose in joining the case. He had the support of Dayton's leaders and the reassurance that the ACLU would pay for any legal expenses. Besides, he was originally from Illinois and had little intention of staying in Dayton long term. If he upset his neighbors, he wouldn't have to live with their hostility forever. But more than anything, Scopes believed in the cause. He later reflected, I knew that sooner or later someone would have to stand up for the stifling of freedom that the Anti-Evolution Act represented. So Scopes agreed to be the one to stand up and serve as the defendant to the delight

of the men at the drugstore. Rapelier called a sheriff to swear out a warrant for Scopes' arrest, and after Scopes returned to his tennis match, Rapelier wired the ACLU while Superintendent White called reporters for the Chattanooga Times, the Nashville banner, promising them something has happened that's going to put Dayton on the map. But the case that Rapelier, Robinson and White set in motion would draw more attention to Dayton than they ever imagined.

As a national spotlight fell on this small Tennessee town, one of America's most sensational defense attorneys was about to leap into the frame. It's your girl Kiki and if you haven't heard my podcast, baby, this is Kiki Palmer. You're missing out. You know I do it all, acting, singing, hosting, producing. But this podcast right here, this is where I get to be my whole entire self with my people, and that means you.

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on the Wondery app, or wherever you get your podcasts. Want it early and ad free? Join Wondery Plus right now. In 1992, federal agents surrounded a remote cabin in the mountains of Idaho. It belonged to Randy Weaver, a Christian survivalist with links to the far right. Weaver was wanted on a minor weapons charge, but a series of blunders and misunderstandings

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Follow American Scandal on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Experience all episodes ad-free and be the first to binge newest seasons only on Wondery+. You can join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial today. On May 6, 1925, the front page of the Nashville banner carried the news that John Scopes had been arrested for violating the Butler Act. The Associated Press picked up the story and transmitted it to newspapers nationwide. From the start, the media recognized that everything about this case was unusual. Few had imagined that the Butler Act would actually result in the arrest of a teacher. School officials rarely publicized legal charges against their own staff, and the ACLU did not typically try to have individuals prosecuted. But they

proceeded confidently with their plan nonetheless. Having deliberately manufactured this as a test case, they were counting on a quick conviction in Dayton. Then they would challenge the constitutionality of the Butler Act on appeal, ideally taking the case all the way to the Supreme Court. But the people of Dayton had other plans. As words spread about the upcoming trial, local residents eagerly anticipated the chance to bring a major public spectacle to their town. But outside of Dayton, many Tennesseans were outraged by news of the upcoming trial. In the decades after the Civil War and Reconstruction, Southerners were sensitive about their national image. Many Tennesseans feared that this trial would do nothing but bring ridicule to the state at a time when many Northerners already viewed them as backwards

and ignorant. So every major newspaper in the state criticized Dayton for staging the trial, even newspapers that opposed the anti-evolution law. The editor of the Chattanooga Times called it a humiliating proceeding, writing, Every lawyer in the state is holding his head in shame. But Dayton residents ignored this criticism and pushed ahead. The town formed a Scopes Trial Entertainment Committee to arrange trial facilities and visitor accommodations, and the district judge scheduled the grand jury to convene a special session in late May to formally indict Scopes. But even though the ACLU had offered to arrange representation for Scopes, he would also need a local defense lawyer who was familiar with Tennessee law,

and he soon had a volunteer in the form of an eccentric Knoxville law professor named John Neal. He was popular with his students, despite his sporadic bathing habits and tendency to sleep in his suits. Neal had also recently been fired from the University of Tennessee for his frequent absences from class and failure to give exams. But when Neal learned about the trial, he drove to Dayton uninvited and offered Scopes his services. Scopes later wrote that Neal more or less appointed himself my counsel. On the opposite side, the local district attorney would oversee the prosecution, but both sides intended to build formidable legal teams, and the prosecution would soon enlist the help of the leading spokesman of the anti-evolution

movement, William Jennings Bryan. At the time of Scope's arrest, Bryan was in Memphis speaking at a convention for a fundamentalist group called the World's Christian Fundamentals Association. The WCFA had taken a keen interest in the outcome of the trial and they feared that the local prosecutor in Dayton could not be trusted to ensure that the anti-evolution law was upheld. So they urged Brian to join the prosecution. Brian had not practiced law for 30 years, but his reputation as an orator and religious advocate made him a natural fit. He eagerly accepted the WCFA's invitation, offering his services to the prosecution for free.

And with Brian on board, what was originally intended as a narrow test of academic freedom was about to transform into a case against evolution itself. And soon, Brian's involvement in the case drew the attention of the influential journalist H.L. Mencken, famous for his sharp wit and savage criticism of rural Americans. Mencken knew the defense needed a lawyer with a star power to match Bryan's, and he had just the man in mind. Imagine it's May 1925, and you're backstage in a convention hall in Richmond, Virginia. You're a writer for the Baltimore Sun and you've traveled here to cover the annual

meeting of the American Psychological Association. The famous defense attorney Clarence Darrow has just finished speaking about his work sparing two murderers from the death penalty last year. You slip past a distracted assistant and find Darrow hunched over a folding chair, damming his forehead with a handkerchief. Ah, Mr. Darrow, that was quite a performance out there. Darrow looks up and acknowledges your compliment with a shrug. All I did was tell the truth.

Yeah, but not everyone can do that with such eloquence. Speaking of the truth, what do you think about this test case down in Tennessee? The ACLU found a teacher to challenge the state's anti-evolution statute. Oh, is that right? Yeah, his name's John Scopes. The state's gonna prosecute him for teaching Darwin. I'm sure he could use a defense attorney of your caliber. Darrow, furrows his brow. Oh, haven't you heard? I've already announced my retirement. I'm too old for this. Last year took it out of me. Oh, don't tell me. The great Clarence Darrow? Too old to hold his own in a back country courtroom? I don't believe it for a minute. I'd wager you have

yet another big case in you, and this could be the most important case of your career. Well, who says the ACLU would even want my help? I've made no secret of the fact that I'm no churchgoer. They're sure to want a good Christian boy so they can show that you can defend evolution and still believe in the Bible. Well, you know, I'm surprised to hear that you would turn down a chance to go toe-to-toe with William Jennings Bryan. Darrow sits up straight. Bryan, that pompous windbag? You'd think he'd be satisfied with all the money he's made peddling Florida's swampland.

Instead, he's insisting on forcing this fundamentalist nonsense on the rest of us? He is indeed. You think you might take the case? Well, I'm certainly not gonna let Bryan drag this country back into the Dark Ages. I'll think about it, but I'm inclined to volunteer my services if they'll have me. Well, they'd be idiots to turn you down. Darrow stands. You offer your hand and he shakes it firmly. There's a fire in his eyes and you can already picture this old lion pacing in front of a jury ready to move in for the kill. And you know that with Darrow going up against Brian,

this is shaping up to be a media spectacle for the ages. In 1925, Clarence Darrow was America's leading defense lawyer. At 68 years old, he wore baggy suits and walked with a stoop, but he was still a commanding presence, thanks to his tall frame, piercing eyes, and rhetorical power. He had been raised in Ohio by a father who was an outspoken atheist, which laid the groundwork for Darrow's career defending unpopular causes. Darrow later remembered, the fact that my father was a heretic always put him on the defensive, and we children thought he was only right and loyal that we should defend his cause. And he would in the 1880s, as Dero moved to Chicago,

where he first became a successful corporate attorney, but in 1894 left his high-paying job to defend striking railway workers. Over the next few years, his work defending labor leaders and anarchists earned him fame among the radical left and the title, Attorney for the Damned. And in 1924, he took on his most notorious case. Nathan Leopold and Richard Loeb were two wealthy University of Chicago students charged with the brutal murder of a 14-year-old boy. Darrow joined the case because he was morally opposed to the death penalty. Leopold and Loeb had confessed to the murder, but Darrow managed to save them from the electric chair with the persuasive argument that they were insane. And then the following year, when Darrow

learned of the pending trial in Dayton from journalist H. L. Menken, he saw a case that was sure to be just as sensational. More than anything, he was interested in squaring off with William Jennings Bryan in a contest of ideas. Thirty years earlier, Darrow had supported Bryan during his first presidential campaign. The two had shared many of the same progressive goals, but they had long since grown apart. Bryan supported Prohibition while Darrow opposed it. Bryan accepted the Ku Klux Klan's involvement in the Democratic Party while Darrow openly criticized the promotion of racial hatred. And while Brian was a leading fundamentalist, Darrow was a self-proclaimed agnostic.

He believed in evolution and thought Brian's crusade represented a dangerous threat to academic freedom, so he wanted this opportunity to debate Brian on the public stage. Darrow quickly volunteered his services to the defense team, and defense lawyer John Neal didn't hesitate. He knew Darrow's reputation and accepted the famous trial lawyer's offer on Scope's behalf without even consulting the ACLU. So Bryan and Darrow had seized the leading roles in the case,

and soon the nation's press would converge on Dayton, Tennessee to witness a clash between giants. The trial of the century was about to begin. From Wondery, this is episode one of our three-part series, Evolution on Trial from American History Tellers. On the next episode, the prosecution and defense teams sharpen their legal strategies and wage war in the press. Hundreds descend on the Dayton courthouse for a front row seat to the trial, while the nation watches closely, anxiously waiting to see whether science or religion will prevail.

If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at Wondery.com slash survey. American History Tellers is hosted, edited and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Peraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Supervising sound designer Graham for Airship. Our Jenny Lauer Beckman, Marshall Louie, and Erin O'Flaherty for Wondering. Kingston Buskers Rendezvous is back! Starting July 10th, come to downtown Kingston for this crowd-wowing festival and enjoy four

days of jugglers, musicians, acrobats, comedians, and more. Talented performers from all over the world can't wait to entertain you all weekend long. It all starts on Thursday July 10th with performances right in the heart of downtown Kingston. And don't miss Buskers After Dark, the Friday Night Fire Show. For more information go to downtownkingston.ca